I always think I have something worth saying, something worth talking about. But everything sounds stupid when I try to communicate it to you; I'm too afraid you wouldn't understand, to nervous to find out that you wouldn't care. I always think I have so many chances; opportunities; prospects. Maybe all I am is a pretty cover; glanced at and ignored, no one opens me up to find the beautiful pages smudged in tears of laughter, of sorrow; the earflaps of the best days of my life; the tear-outs from the worst. I'm shelved; collecting dust. The only lock on me is the one which you've created. But maybe I want to be opened up. Maybe I want someone to read between the lines; I need an honest reader, not a skimmer or a spark notes supporter. Maybe that's why I'm closed. No one likes to read; they just like to flip through the pages, finger through them, reading the dirty, juicy parts, ignoring the blatant truth. A book. I wonder how many endings I have. I wonder who the hero is, how he's going to save me; do I get to save him in return? I don't even know the pain of being dropped. I only know the torture of being pulled from the shelf, leafed through, and put back. Is my cover not pretty enough? Am I too thick for this generation? There's a blank spot on the inside, an open space waiting for the inscription of a name. That space is waiting for a claim, followed by numerous blank pages. I'm a shelfed book, waiting for someone to put their name on me, waiting for someone to help me write a new beginning; or, perhaps, the only beginning.